


Hot and Bothered

by islandgirl_246



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Human, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Personal Assistant Stiles Stilinski, Sick Peter, mostly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 15:09:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9767507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islandgirl_246/pseuds/islandgirl_246
Summary: Peter rolled over and groaned. He felt like someone had taken a jack-hammer to the inside of his skull, and sandpaper to his throat. He groaned again, but tried to shift his body towards the edge of the bed to swing his feet to the floor.The room swam when he attempted to stand and he was forced to plop his butt back down onto his 1000 count sheets and wait for the wave to pass. Shit, he couldn’t afford to get sick. He had a meeting with the Jessic Group this morning and Talia would have his ass if he was late.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I wanted to find a way to contribute to International Fanworks Day 2017, #IFD2017, but didn’t want to just put up something I’d already started working on from my series. So this came to me as a little romantic one shot. It’s following along the lines of the prompts issued by AO3, so here goes. Had a pretty shitty weekend, and this was supposed to be a “cheer me up” attempt. Hope you like it.

Peter rolled over and groaned. He felt like someone had taken a jack-hammer to the inside of his skull, and sandpaper to his throat. He groaned again, but tried to shift his body towards the edge of the bed to swing his feet to the floor.

The room swam when he attempted to stand and he was forced to plop his butt back down onto his 1000 count sheets and wait for the wave to pass. _Shit, he couldn’t afford to get sick._ He had a meeting with the Jessic Group this morning and Talia would have his ass if he was late.

He glanced at his clock and saw it was already gone 7:30 – if his wavering vision was to be trusted. He made one last ditch effort to push himself to his feet and failed once more, almost face-planting down on the carpeted floor. It wouldn’t have been too bad, but he valued his precious nose – having not broken it in his 36-year existence. Nausea hit him full force, but the mere thought of vomit on his sheets quickly dispelled that feeling.

He’d be damned if he’d find himself lying here in his own filth – but the effort to get back into bed cost him and by the time he was situated on his luxurious pillows again he was sweating like he’d been downstairs for his usual morning yoga routine.

 _Damn, Talia was gonna kill him for not making this meeting._ He threw a tired hand out looking for his cell which normally resided on his bedside table overnight. It was nowhere near, no matter how far he threw his hand across the table – although truth be told he couldn’t reach very far in his state.

He gave up, exhaling tiredly, and must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew there was a shrill noise of his phone going off, with the **Jaws** theme song. _Talia!_ It was a running joke between them. An annoyance for her, but sheer amusement for Peter each time it played anywhere in her hearing. He liked to let her call him and rather than answering walk down the corridor of their offices with ringing phone in hand and into her office.

Now though, by the echo of the song, it was somewhere out in the hall. He remembered discussing some last minute changes to the contract with her from his home office last night, with the phone in its dock on his desk. He must have forgotten it there. No wonder he never heard his yoga alarm.

He groaned. There was no way in hell he was even attempting to get to the device now. Eventually she’d call the landline.

He must have dozed again because the expected landline call never came – or if it did he was in nowhere land by then – but he clearly heard a muttered, “Shit!” in his vicinity. He simply did not possess the energy to open his eyes and investigate.

“Boss, he doesn’t look good,” the voice said. “Yeah,” a pause, then “yeah” again. A hand touched him and he groaned afresh; then the voice said, “Feels like he’s got a temperature and what looks like a rash on his left cheek. I’m calling Alan.”

Whoever was talking was too damn loud because the voice was reverberating inside his skull. He tried to raise a hand, a voice, anything to chase the loud vermin away, but no luck. Everything hurt.

“No, don’t come down here. It doesn’t make sense. Look, you’ve got all the paperwork you need. Call Laura and let her sit in, and let Cora stand by,” the voice chuckled, “Everyone’s scared of Cora. That should keep Richard in line. Tell them we got their documents late yesterday, which is the truth, and we need another day or two to make sure everything is in order. If push comes to shove, let them know the areas we are reviewing based on Peter’s assessment from last night so they don’t think we’re trying to back out. That should hold old man Jessic and his daughter. If Richard starts being a jackass, they’ll pull him in line once they hear that.”

The voice paused, probably to listen, and as Peter’s mind was celebrating the silence, the annoyance said again, with a laugh this time, “That's what you pay me for boss, my brain and my strategies. . . Yeah, I’m going to see what I can do here. Based on how he looks though, you might not see me till afternoon, if at all. If you need anything just call. But don’t worry about Peter, I’ve got this.”

++++++

The topic of his discussion moved slightly in bed as Stiles hung up. “Shit!” he muttered again and dialled Alan Deaton.

Half-an-hour later Dr. Deaton closed his case. “It’s not high enough to be a concern, but he’s sweating enough that these sheets are going to become an issue before too much later. Try to keep him as dry as possible but let him sweat it out, that’s actually a good thing. He needs to take two of these, but with food, every four hours.

“Rub this,” he placed a tube of something onto the table, “onto his chest and the vapours should help somewhat with his congestion, and this on his cheek for the rash. For now the most we can do is wait it out. We’ve had a few cases of this at the clinic. This damn flu’s been keeping everyone on their toes, and my practice has had to send a few to the hospital. Let’s hope this doesn’t get that bad. The shot I gave you should boost your immune system enough to be in the same room with him for a prolonged period, just remember to practice good hygiene, and Vitamin C.

“Check his temperature every half hour for the next three hours and if there are any spikes call me immediately because we may need to get him into the clinic. As long as the temperature keeps decreasing he should start showing signs of improvement in another 24 to 36 hours.”

Stiles sighed. “I guess this means I’m on babysitting duties?”

Alan chuckled. “What I wouldn’t do to have him lucid enough to hear that.”

Stiles gave him the middle finger, as the doc packed up and left with a smile on his face. “And call Talia, you dick! She’s going to worry until you reassure her,” Stiles called out from the top of the stairs.

Doc waved a hand in acknowledgement and his laugh echoed though the empty halls, but he didn’t actually stop his procession to the door.

Stiles growled and returned to the bedroom, where he stood for a few moments, hands akimbo as he watched the slumbering Hale. Even dead ass sick, he was still hot as fuck, pun fully not intended. Life just wasn’t fair.

“Mind in the game, Stiles,” he grumbled to himself and went to the bathroom for another cool cloth.

++++++

Over the next 12 hours, Peter faded in and out, only conscious that someone was force feeding him and of a cool cloth on his forehead – _thank fuck cause he felt like he was melting in his skin_. The person orbiting his room smelled vaguely familiar but they wouldn’t stay close long enough for him to get a decent whiff of the cologne – he was sure it was cologne he would catch ever so often.

“Come on big guy, need to get this soup and these pills in you. A little help would be nice. Come on,” the soothing voice said, and Peter obediently opened his lips and allowed the tasty broth to dribble down his throat.

Just as the voice said, it was followed by two pills and he was told to swallow. No idea why, but he obeyed.

++++++

Stiles had asked Isaac to drop some papers off for him earlier. He would go stark mad if he had to spend the whole day with nothing to do but watch Peter sleep, and Peter would probably chop both his hands off, at the shoulders, if he so much as touched the books in his library. Safer just to do paperwork so he wasn’t so far behind tomorrow.

Tomorrow! Shit, he hadn’t thought about the fact that he’d probably have to stay overnight, since Talia had a dinner meeting and then a flight to Chicago for another early tomorrow. He sighed fresh and cursed Peter Hale whom he didn’t even think could get sick.

But right now, he had a few more appointments to schedule for Talia, and the office was forwarding any calls Stiles should handle directly to Peter’s landline in the library. Apparently the pain-in-the-ass Hale had unplugged the phone in his room because when Stiles arrived the cord was already hanging useless near the socket. Cell phone in the library/office and bedroom line disabled. No wonder no one had been able to reach Peter all morning, hence Stiles showing up with Talia’s spare key in hand to investigate.

While Peter could be arrogant, annoying, and a snob at times, he was the epitome of professionalism. So him not showing up at 8, when he knew Talia wanted to meet him to go over the changes he’d made to the contracts last night before the meeting with the tech company they were about to go into business with, was unlike the lawyer.

When he answered neither cell nor landline, Talia had had Danny track the number, showing it was still at Peter’s residence. Given the Hales’ history, Talia had been bordering on fear so her faithful assistant Stiles had volunteered to go check up on the situation. Talia had insisted he take Boyd with him, _just in case_. Stiles refused to consider all the possibilities behind those three fateful words.

By the time he’d got Peter stripped out of his sopping wet clothes and Boyd had helped him change the sheets, he’d sent the head of security back to H.A.L.E. headquarters, telling him he was no longer needed, and more, he should be there to break things up in case Cora decided to put Richard on his back again. The last time had almost caused an incident, though Stiles thought the jerk deserved it. Who in their right mind would pat Cora Hale on the ass without invitation?

Stiles shook his head now and chuckled at the memory of the dazed look in the arrogant prick’s eyes as he’d stared up at the furious littlest Hale from his place on his back on the floor during a cocktail reception.

A noise from the Hale bedroom had Stiles scrambling from behind the man’s desk. Peter was trying to sit up, and Stiles rushed forward. “What do you need?”

“Bathroom,” Peter muttered, with a scratchy voice that sounded like it hadn’t been used in a while and like it cost him to talk now. Slipping a hand under his shoulders, Stiles hefted the man from the sheets and helped him stumble into the adjoining room.

“I draw the line at holding your dick, Peter. So please tell me you got this?”

The lawyer nodded jerkily once, and after making sure he wouldn’t face plant, Stiles retreated to the threshold and tried not to listen or visualise as Peter relieved himself. The bowl flushed and water came on in the sink. At least the man practiced good hygiene himself, and that’s when Stiles pushed open the door once again, and quickly aided the stumbling man back to bed.

The muttered thanks surprised him so much that he froze for a moment, staring wide-eyed at Peter. Jesus, he really is sick!

Now don’t get Stiles wrong, it’s not that Peter was a horrible person, I mean all of Stiles’ body parts stood up at attention when the man entered a room; _but that was beside the point, Stiles. Dammit, stay on point!_ The point was that Peter usually made you work for every single scrap of acknowledgement; every compliment and he would swear thanks had never before crossed the man’s lips. He was pretty sure Peter’s dictionary was missing the word altogether. The man probably had lengthy discussions with Oxford to create his own version.

He released Peter into the bed, pulling the sheets up almost absently. _Why was he turned on by a mere, thank you? Desperate Stiles, hella desperate!_

++++++

Peter cracked open a lid and knew it was the dead of night. He remembered being spoon-fed soup again, along with some medication. He remembered Stiles, because he knew now for sure that it was Stiles – he remembered Stiles helping him to the bathroom, and vaguely a change of clothing that he’d rather not think about until he could respond as he normally would. Damn, this had turned into the embarrassment of the century.

He was feeling marginally better, when he attempted to sit up. Still woozy and weak, but not as dead drained and painy as earlier. It was late and the house was silent – like dead silent. Stiles had probably gone home for the night.

Giving up his attempt to get out of bed for water, Peter flicked the bedside switch for a moment, revealing that in fact the slim, bespeckled gentleman who’d been watching over him all day had left a carafe of water and a full glass on the side table, clearly within reach. Dammit, yet something else he’d need to thank Stiles for.

It wasn’t that Peter hated saying thank you. It was the feeling it often left him with, like he owed someone for their kindness or whatever action had been visited on him. The vulnerability, given his family’s history of loss, was not something he relished. Since the attack that had claimed Talia’s husband, David; he and Talia’s sister, Rhoda; and two children, they’d strived to project a face of strength, even when at times it felt like their insides were falling out. So for Peter, vulnerability, particularly in the world of high business, and especially law, was a no-no.

“What’s wrong,” a voice mumbled from the doorway.

Looking up he encountered a rumpled Stiles Stilinski, complete with outrageous bed-head, pyjama pants riding low on his hips, and a soft looking stretched out shirt that was slipping down one pale shoulder.

“Just water,” he replied when his tongue could function again.

“Need help?” the young man looked dead on his feet.

“No. Go back to bed,” Peter instructed, assuming he had ensconced himself in one of the guest rooms.

The young man paused once more despite his clear exhaustion, before nodding and doing as suggested.

Peter slowly raised the glass to his lips, grasping it hand over hand to stop the shaking and possible spillage, and swallowed the cool liquid down in gulps. It soothed his still marginally sore throat and quenched his building thirst. When the glass was empty he glanced once more at the now empty doorway, not sure what the slight clench in his chest meant, and fuck it was too late to be trying to figure shit out, so he dropped his weak body back onto his soft sheets and allowed sleep to pull him under.

++++++

He awoke to a gentle buzz of some kind. It took a moment before he realised it was a voice at a low volume in conversation. His faculties returned rather quickly informing him that it could only be Stiles, perhaps in his office across the hall from his bedroom.

Swinging himself up in bed felt a little more stable this time around, and Peter was really in need of a shower – an honest-to-goodness-water-flowing-over-shoulders-involving-heavenly-bath-gel-and-lovely-foamy-suds shower. And he was determined to do it on his own. Trying not to make a sound, he eased to his feet and was impressed when the dizziness quickly dissipated. He cracked a smile, the first one since lord knows when.

In the bathroom it was pretty easy to shed his layers – silk pyjama pants and a button down that he didn’t even remember when Stiles dressed him in these. Dropping them in his laundry basket just outside the bathroom doorway, he was aware of several more pairs of sleep clothes, meaning that his sister’s assistant changed him more times than perhaps anyone’s ever done since his own mother when he was five. He closed his eyes to ward of the feeling that he didn’t want to acknowledge let alone name.

The sound of the water, falling on the black marble floor was a welcomed distraction. He lingered in the hot water as steam fogged the bathroom. When he exited there was a folded shirt and sweatpants sitting on the counter with a note atop. Despite the glass surrounding the stall he hadn’t been aware of the man entering or leaving. The laundry basket was gone too and again he fought his immediate internal response to all this.

 ** _Gone to the office. Back soon. S_** – was all the note said.

In the bedroom, a covered tray welcomed him and the smell of coffee tantalised his nostrils. He sighed and could no longer deny what had been staring him in the face for longer than the past 24 hours.

He devoured the meal, flicking on the television to get caught up on what he had missed in world affairs, and decides to call his sister as soon as he can handle a discussion. She tended to worry over the family, a lot, and he knew Stiles’ presence in his home was the assistant’s attempt at calming his boss’ nerves. Stiles was good at anticipating needs, especially the ones that would set Talia off.

Without the young man in his house, he could admit that from the moment Stiles had joined the company he’d been wishing it was he and not his sister that had found him first. Stiles was indispensable and these past 24 hours had shown just how much.

The call 20 minutes later lasted almost as long as the break he had purposely taken to prepare himself for the call, despite Talia being out of state at the moment. Once he hung up, he was feeling miles better about having spoken to his relieved sister.

He moved from the bedroom down to his den and flicked on the television. He needed another while to switch his brain off from the memories that call stirred. After having serious conversations with Talia he always missed Rhoda and David more. In David he’d found a man he admired and who could put up with his many moods, especially his arrogance. His sister, Rhoda, had taken everything with a smile. The bomb in the car that had claimed their lives, along with Rhoda’s two children, had really been meant for Talia. Who would have thought that David’s jeep would have gone in for servicing that day, and him insisting on taking Talia’s to pick up her sister and children from the airport, would have ended the tragic way it did.

Peter called up one of his favourite television shows and vegged for a while.

++++++

That was how Stiles found him three hours and some later, engrossed in an episode of Suits and so gone on the unfolding drama that he didn’t even hear the young man approach until he spoke.

“My God, he’s the Hollywood characterisation of you, isn’t he?”

Peter jumped at the voice to his left, but guiltily settled once more. “If by that you mean he’s brilliant and doesn’t take anyone’s shit, then yes. But I’m the version that Harvey Specter wishes he was.”

Stiles dropped his cross body bag onto the floor and dropped his butt onto the arm of the sofa, ignoring Peter’s blatant glare at his defiling the furniture. “You do realise that Mike’s the reason he seems so brilliant.”

“Excuse you! He was brilliant before there ever was a Mike Ross at Pearson Hardman. Harvey had already been appointed partner when Mike entered the picture, literally. Any contribution Mike made was simply earning his keep for what Harvey did for him,” he said, with a high brow.

Stiles looked at him like he’d lost his marbles. “Clearly the fever has scrambled your brain. How can anyone that watches the show determine Mike was ‘earning his keep’ as you put it? Are you nuts? Mike was the only thing stopping Harvey becoming a complete A-moral asshat! And what’s more I think you know that.”

Peter growled. “You’ve clearly been watching the wrong episodes.”

And so the argument continued. They ordered pizza, with Stiles insisting on a salad as well – “you’re still sick Peter”, and continued what was clearly a Suits marathon. Work having been abandoned for the day in favour of arguments and snark.

All was well, until Stiles had to go and spoil it all by uttering, “Oh my God, you’re like a died-in-the-wool, hard core Suits fan! Like a mega-fan. Like the kind of fan you only hear about when they’ve been arrested for stalking one of the stars!” The delight was clear in his voice. “You don’t perhaps also write fan fiction tributes to Harvey's perfect everything on AO3 or LiveJournal or something, do you?”

Peter rolled his eyes, tossing a piece of crust at Stiles head as the young man giggled uncontrollably, almost rolling out of the chair as the laughter took over. “Shut up, it’s a good show and Harvey’s hot.” Peter didn’t realise what he’d said until his mouth betrayed him and suddenly Stiles’ laughter dried up as his eyes went wide.

Peter blushed, and Stiles stared harder.

“O.M.G. You have a crush on Harvey,” his voice was almost a whisper that cracked on the character’s name.

Peter dropped the rest of the slice back onto the plate which he deposited on the table, getting to his feet. “I do not have a crush on a fictitious character.” He escaped to the kitchen for a glass and a bottle of wine from his treasure trove.

“You can’t have that. You’re still on medication.”

Peter glared, but after a heavy sigh filled the glass with water.

“Besides, there’s nothing wrong with falling in love with your favourite TV star.”

“I.am.not.in.love.with.Harvey.Specter,” he grated out.

Stiles raised disbelieving brows but remained silent.

“Oh go away,” Peter said petulantly, and Stiles grinned.

“It’s kinda cute the way you blush as you say that. There’s no shame in it, you know. As you said, Gabriel Macht is kinda hot, actually not kinda, he’s really hot, although truthfully, I thought you’d be more into Donna than Harvey.”

Peter sputtered into his glass, coughed and lunged. He had no idea what he’d been planning to do beyond getting Stiles to shut up about the damn show and Harvey Specter, although he hadn’t thought through just how he would do that either. By the time he realised, he’d cornered Stiles against the kitchen counter and the laughter had faded into heavy breathing. Peter couldn’t stop looking. Those damn whisky eyes and pale skin, with beckoning moles. He swallowed thickly.

“Peter?” the name came out on a breath of air that brushed Peter’s lips, and before he knew it Stiles was moaning and their mouths were attempting to devour each other.

Stiles’ fingers were threading through and tugging his hair in a most distracting manner, and his hands were cradling the young man’s face. When they both broke for a breath, Peter closed his eyes, resting his forehead against Stiles’ and he inhaled roughly. “Shit!”

“You can say that again . . . _Harvey_ ,” Stiles whispered.

Peter snorted a laugh. “I’m no Harvey, you’re no Mike, and thank God for that. He’s got nothing on you.” Stiles couldn’t help it, he blushed. “And Donna’s not really my type,” Peter continued, brushing a thumb along his cheek.

Now Stiles was definitely speechless and blushing, and Peter smiled. “You’re really too easy, you know that?”

“Shut up and kiss me!” And Peter obliged, once more claiming his lips, as Stiles wrapped long arms around his neck.

_Talia wasn't going to like this, not at all._

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know how you felt about the contribution. It’s a little fluffier than I’m used to.


End file.
